


As the Sea Knows the Shore

by joonscribble



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, written before series 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:20:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joonscribble/pseuds/joonscribble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old friend of John's dies under mysterious circumstances. Or does he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The phone in John’s pocket buzzed just as he finished placing the order of lamb curry. He sighed inwardly, taking a guess that it would be a text from Sherlock. Of course when John had practically waved take away menu options directly in front of Sherlock’s face an hour ago he’d ignored them. Obviously now since John had chosen Indian on his own and was done placing the order at the restaurant, Sherlock had an opinion.  
  
John pulled out his phone, fully intending on telling Sherlock to get his own food for once if he didn't want Indian, when he saw it was actually a text from Sarah.  
  
 _Just got checked in. The hotel is much posher than expected. I was greeted with mints on my pillow. See what luxury you’re missing?? Wish you were here._  
  
John grinned to himself, despite the slight twinge of regret that he’d decided to forgo attending the conference in Oxford. Even before his entry into the army, John had found medical conferences to be unforgivably dull. The information being given out was usually interesting, but the venue, the people, the method of said information being relayed was often fatally boring.  
  
But strangely his hesitancy at attending this one had more to do with the fact that he’d be going on a weekend long trip with Sarah, who at this point John could tentatively perhaps call his girlfriend without making it sound too much like a question. As it stood now, John was incredibly fond of his relationship with Sarah. It was unconventional, but that seemed to be the theme of his life since getting back from Afghanistan. He’d yet to sleep over at hers or her at his, but they had fought off Chinese gangsters together and had almost gotten killed. When John thought about it, if Sarah hadn’t run screaming for the hills after he’d nearly made her the special guest star victim on an episode of Batman, what more proof did he need that she was in it for the long haul with him?  
  
No, the problem was ironically the normalcy of going away on a short work-related holiday with your girlfriend that had frightened John a bit. Getting dumped after nearly getting your date skewered on a first date was one thing. But if Sarah found him intolerable because of the way he brushed his teeth or how he really couldn’t fall asleep unless the bedding was tightly tucked…he wasn’t sure how he’d deal with that.  
  
Opening up a blank text, John began to type out a reply to Sarah’s when a familiar voice shouted to him over the noisy bustle of the restaurant.  
  
“John? John Watson!”  
  
For a moment, John had a wave of déjà vu before he glanced up to see the person calling to him three tables away. Seated in front of a half devoured tandoori chicken with a napkin pinned to his tie was Mike Stamford. Lifting a fork, the other doctor cheerfully waved at John, clearly inviting him over.  
  
Despite being a regular visitor at Bart’s and owing a great deal of his living situation to Mike, John hadn’t seen him since the day he’d first met Sherlock. John felt some guilt over that but it was hard to remain sheepish about it when Mike was greeting him so warmly now. For as long as John could remember that had always been a characteristic of Mike’s: he seemed genuinely pleased to see old friends no matter how long they’d been negligent about staying in touch.  
  
“Hey! Fancy running into you here,” said Mike, happily. “You’re looking good,” he commented, his eyes momentarily becoming fractionally shrewd as physician’s eyes did as John slid into the seat opposite him. “You’ve put some weight on since I last saw you,” he concluded with approval.  
  
John smiled. Mike would notice that but completely miss the fact that he no longer had his cane. “A bit, yeah,” he agreed.  
  
“Still, you’ve got ways to go to catch up with me,” Mike grinned as he shoveled a forkful of rice into his mouth. “How did the flat share thing work out?” he asked. “I assumed it did if you’re still about London.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, it worked out well, actually.” The sudden leap of Mike’s eyebrows toward his hairline said volumes. “Well,” John amended. “Sherlock’s a bit…” Images of what he’d found in their oven last night flashed in John’s mind. “But it’s worked out.”  
  
“That’s great,” Mike replied. “To tell you the truth, I was a bit worried when I didn’t hear from you afterward. I thought maybe he’d turn out to be a bit…much as a flatmate, I mean.”  
  
Images of what he’d found in their freezer last week flashed through John’s mind. Maybe it was time to change the subject.  
  
“What’re you doing out so late?” John asked, recalling that the last time he’d caught up with Mike, the man had spoken quite enthusiastically about the joys of having regular hours once he’d switched to teaching. “More time to spend with Val and the kids,” John recalled Mike saying.  
  
“Double duties at the moment,” Mike sighed. “Spencer was heading up the night lectures so until they find a replacement all the faculty are taking on a few extra.”  
  
“Wait, what? Spencer?” Suddenly John felt like he’d missed out on a whole other part of the conversation. “You mean Spencer Baird?” A face John hadn’t even thought about in years rose in his mind with sudden clarity.  
  
A frown creased Mike’s forehead. “You hadn’t heard? I thought you were on the Bart’s email listserve for our class. It...the email was sent out last week. Or I thought maybe you’d heard being around the pathology labs-”  
  
“No, I’m not on the- never mind that, what about Spencer?”  


* * *

  
_“Doctor! Doctor! I need your help!”_   
  
_“Not now, Spence.”_   
  
_“But it’s serious! My head feels fit to burst, I’m chilled all over. And look! My tongue’s gone black!”_   
  
_Without looking up from his textbook, John rattled off, “It’s a cold. And lay off the licorice.”_   
  
_“Dear me, Doctor Watson,” tutted Spencer in his best Eton-Oxford accent. “Is this the rigorous diagnostic talents you shall bestow upon your patients? Have you assessed for cholera? Tuberculosis? The bubonic plague?”_   
  
_Despite himself, John laughed aloud at the imitation of their immunology professor. “Seeing as how we’re not living in the 14th century, I figured it was safe to rule out the plague.”_   
  
_“Sloppy work, Doctor Watson,” Spencer chastised as he threw himself down on the couch next to John. “Don’t give me that look,” chuckled Spencer, returning to his normal, Glasgowian voice. “If anyone was going to give the bubonic plague as a diagnostic option on the exams, it’d be Robbins.”_   
  
_Spencer did have a point. “Only because Robbins probably lived through the plague the first go around,” John guessed._   
  
_Spencer laughed. “Probably. Bastard’s old enough to have been the physician on call to declare Jesus officially dead. Anyway,” Spencer slapped the couch cushion to declare the subject changed. “Pub. Let’s go.”_   
  
_“Sorry, are you not aware of the exams we have next week?” John asked, exasperated. “Some of us want to pass.”_   
  
_“It’s Christmas break, Watson,” Spencer protested. “What’s the point of staying in Merry Olde London if we’re not going to take advantage of it?”_   
  
_St. Bart’s academic side was officially closed for the holidays, allowing its students to flee to all corners of the UK for the break. Due to lack of funds, Spencer had decided not to take the train back up to Scotland to be with his parents. John had opted to remain in London as well. He’d used the excuse of having to revise for his exams for not going home. But he knew he hadn’t fooled anyone in his family._   
  
_“Don’t give in to the rotten-ness of our distinguished school scheduling exams right after the holidays,” Spencer continued. “Come on. Even Stamford’s gone off to enjoy himself. Christmas is a time for friends and family and heroic amounts of alcohol. Not libraries and medical charts.”_   
  
_“No thanks,” John shuddered. “If I’d wanted the former, I’d have just gone back to Surrey.”_   
  
_“Has Harry moved back yet?”_   
  
_“Yeah.”_   
  
_It was currently a full house back home now that his sister had moved back in after dropping out of university. The latter move hadn’t exactly endeared her to their parents. She’d also recently come out to them as well at their father’s last birthday gathering. Having witnessed the fireworks at that family event, John wasn’t keen on seeing another, even bigger explosion that only a holiday like Christmas could inspire. Still, it hadn’t gone exactly well when he’d rung up his mother to let her know that it’d be the first Christmas he wouldn’t be spending with them._   
  
_Leaning sideways on the couch, Spencer propped his head against his fist as he studied John for a minute. “Look, Watson, it’s not too late to get yourself a train ticket,” he said. “That is, if you want to spend the extra fifty quid to be miserable,” he added after a beat._   
  
_After a minute of digesting that, John smiled a little to himself. With an air of finality, he shut his textbook. “Right, then,” he declared. “The King’s Crown?”_   
  
_Grinning, Spencer shot to his feet. “Good choice. Who knows? Maybe someone will get alcohol poisoning and we’ll get to take a shot at being doctors.”_   
  
_“God bless us, everyone.”_

* * *

  
At some point the waiter had put John’s take away on the table. It had grown cold as John listened to what Mike knew.  
  
“The police were by his office a few days ago,” said Mike. “Just to do a quick sweep, you know. It’s been ruled a suicide. They found him in his flat with a gun.”  
  
“That…” John shook his head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. Spencer? He’d never…”  
  
“It doesn’t, does it?” Mike agreed, sympathetically. “I mean, from what I knew of him at any rate. I said hello to him a few times when he started back at Bart’s a week ago. He seemed fine.”  
  
John vaguely remembered that Spencer and Mike hadn’t been too close. Not due to any animosity but mainly a complete separation in interests. Mike had been internal medicine and general practice through and through. While Spencer had…  
  
“He was going to do work overseas,” John recalled, faintly.  
  
Mike nodded. “Yeah, he did do that for a bit. He joined Doctors Without Borders. He’d gone to Haiti for awhile.” John stared at him, confused at the knowledge. “Um…the listserve does a general announcement of people’s goings on,” he explained, almost apologetically. “When was the last time you talked to Spencer?” he asked.  
  
The question was genuinely innocent, but caused a sudden stab in John’s stomach. He hadn’t spoken to Spencer since leaving for basic training.  
  
“Did the police say why?” John asked instead. “I mean…”  
  
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t actually spoken to any authorities about it. It was just announced what had happened and…well, it sounded pretty open and shut.”  
  
Only John couldn’t believe it was so simple. Nothing he knew about Spencer Baird suggested the man would even contemplate killing himself. Granted, he hadn’t spoken to Spencer in years, but even if a single grain of what Spencer had been back in school had remained, there was just no way.  
  
There was no way.  
  
It didn’t make any sense.  


* * *

  
“What’s happened with the food?” asked Sherlock.  
  
The consulting detective was seated exactly the way John had left him two hours ago: at the kitchen table, surrounded by various lidded pots. Despite addressing John, his eyes were still focused on the microscope that had “Property of St Bartholomew's Hospital” stamped across its side.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“Food,” Sherlock repeated.  
  
Looking down at his empty hands, John realized he’d left his take away at the restaurant. Not that it would have been edible at this point anyway. “I forgot it,” John answered, lamely.  
  
“Yes, that much was obvious,” Sherlock stated, sounding a bit annoyed. “I was asking what had happened to it.”  
  
“I ran into Mike Stamford at the restaurant.”  
  
“And there’s a correlation between that and the missing food?”  
  
“Look, you weren’t even hungry,” John snapped. Finally Sherlock’s eyes flickered up from his study of the microscope to where he stood. “A friend of mine’s died,” he explained, tiredly. Suddenly it felt ridiculously late, despite it only being 10 o’clock.  
  
“Ah.” There was a momentary silence. “And that’s upset you.”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock,” John answered, patiently. “Most people do get upset when friends die.”  
  
“Even if they’re friends you haven’t spoken to in nearly a decade?” Sherlock inquired, lightly, returning to his microscope.  
  
The part of John that could always be in awe of Sherlock no matter what else was happening was jumping up and down now, demanding to know how it was that the consulting detective knew he hadn’t spoken to Spencer in so long. But instead, John realized what he had his hands on. A case.  
  
“The police are saying Spencer killed himself. Only they’ve got it wrong. It doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
The laser sharp eyes glanced up again from the microscope, now looking intrigued. “You don’t believe it was suicide.”  
  
“No, never,” John insisted. “Look, I knew Spence. He’d never do anything like that.”  
  
“What’s your evidence?”  
  
“I knew him.”  
  
Sherlock made a disparaging sound before shifting his focus away to attend to one of the lidded pots.  
  
“What?” John demanded.  
  
“There’s no case. You’re contradicting the evidence-based conclusions of the police with the subjective opinion of a person you haven’t spoken to in years,” Sherlock dismissed.  
  
“No, hang on-“  
  
“A friend of yours has died and you’re entering into the first stage of grief known as denial,” Sherlock continued on through the interruption. “Simple.”  
  
Anger heaved inside John at the tone. “Simple? You didn’t even understand two minutes ago that people got upset at friends dying!”  
  
“Irrelevant,” Sherlock replied sounding now a bit bored as he lifted the lid off one of the pots. Inside was a severed hand floating in what looked like brackish water. “If you’re going past the Thames tomorrow, I’ll need you to get me a sample. There’s a thermos over there,” he nodded toward the kitchen sink, their earlier conversation all but forgotten.  
  
John had a sudden moment of wanting to shove all the pots to the floor in a childish gesture to get Sherlock to break out of his flippant attitude. Instead, he pushed himself away from the table, the grotesque experiment, and Sherlock himself. “Get it yourself,” he snapped and left for his room without waiting for a reply.

* * *

  
That night, John had a nightmare. The first one he’d had since moving into Baker Street.  
  
He was back in Afghanistan and his unit was under fire. Bullets whizzed by John’s ears as he crouched as much as he could while not relieving any of the pressure he was putting down onto the wounded soldier under him.  
  
“It’s going to be fine,” John shouted above the gunfire to the soldier, practically a teenager, under his hands. Blood poured out from the soldier’s mouth as well as from the gaping hole in his chest. Frantically, John looked around trying to find a space he could pull the man to in order to treat him properly. But there was nothing. They were in open space on the rooftop structure of a half-demolished building. “It’s going to be fine,” John repeated, uselessly, feeling the time and life bleeding out between his fingers.  
  
“I do say, Doctor Watson,” observed a voice from above. “You are the very model of a modern major general.”  
  
Looking up, John saw Spencer sitting casually on the ledge of the rooftop with an amused smile on his face despite the bullets and screaming around him.  
  
“Spence, help me,” John pleaded. “I can’t get the bleeding to stop.”  
  
“You've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,” Spencer sang instead, his grin only widening. “You know the kings of England, and you quote the fights historical from Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical!”  
  
“Stop mucking about!” shouted John, desperately. “I need your help!”  
  
“You’re very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical, you understand equations, both the simple and quadratical.”  
  
“He’s dying for Christ’s sake! Stop singing and get over here!”  
  
Hopping down from the ledge, Spencer instead placed one hand to his chest and gestured to John with a theatrical sweep of the other. “About binomial theorem you’re teeming with a lot o' news with many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse!” Spencer belted out in his familiar baritone.  
  
Having enough, John scrambled to his feet and grabbed Spencer by the shirt, staining it with his bloodied hands. “Be quiet!” he shouted in the other man’s face. “Help me before I lose hi-“  
  
A sharp, burning pain exploded in John’s shoulder and he was thrust forward by the impact of the bullet that caught him in his shoulder. The second it happened, Spencer seemed to vanish and there was nothing stopping John’s momentum as he fell forward and toppled over the roof.  


* * *

  
John gasped awake and jolted from his bed with enough force that he rolled over and fell off it. Before he could brace himself, he landed on the floor with a loud crack, his good shoulder slamming into the hard wood.  
  
Biting the inside of his cheek, John stopped himself from shouting at the pain that radiated from his shoulder down to arm and hand. His bad shoulder twinged at the sensation as well, as if in sympathy for its mate.  
  
 _Great_ , he thought, morosely. _I’m on my way to a matching set._  
  
Gingerly pushing himself up to a sitting position on the floor, he leaned against his bed and forced his breathing to calm down as he forcefully breathed through his nose. As the pounding in his chest eased after a few minutes, he could hear the muted sounds of shuffling footsteps and pots being banged about below. John glanced up at the clock on his nightstand and saw it was going on 2am. It seemed Sherlock was still awake.  
  
Now that the sweat drenching his back and neck was cooling off, his room felt markedly more freezing. John imagined going down to the kitchen and fixing himself a cup of tea to warm up. But instead he sat on the floor for a few more minutes until the sounds of pots being moved around faded away, followed by the sound of a door being shut as John guessed Sherlock had finally retired to his own room for the night.  
  
After a few more minutes, John climbed back into bed. He lay on his back, staring up at his darkened ceiling, trying to keep his mind blank of anything until finally he drifted asleep again as skies outside his window began to lighten with the approach of a new day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An old friend of John's dies under mysterious circumstances. Or does he?

It was the sound of his phone insistently beeping that finally pulled John from his sleep. Groggily rubbing at his eyes, he saw the clock on his nightstand read 11am. Disjointed by the lateness of the hour, John fumbled for his phone that continued to demand that he check his text messages. The screen lit up under his fingers, letting him know he one from Sherlock.  
  
 _Lestrade called. Body found drowned at the Zetter Hotel. Come at once._  
  
John stared at his phone. A day that started with a case from Sherlock would only inspire John to all but leap out of bed with excitement. But today he stared at the message for a few more seconds before sliding his phone shut. As if reacting to his movements, the phone buzzed immediately.   
  
_Bring the pot that’s on the kitchen table. Handle carefully. Foot inside._  
  
John slid the phone shut again. After a moment’s contemplation, he turned it off all together.

 

* * *

  
  
Much like the pathology lab at St. Bartholomew’s, the rest of the hospital had gotten a face lift since John had been there. However, this apparently hadn’t been extended to the faculty offices. There was some evidence that the walls had been given a new coat of paint at some point and the offices themselves were now fitted with basic, necessary technology. But as John made his way down the hallway, he might as well have been a student again.   
  
The hassled receptionist out front had barely glanced at John when he’d asked for directions to Dr. Spencer Baird’s office. This had worked in John’s favor as the police ID he’d preemptively flashed in order to gain access had been the one of Lestrade’s that John had inherited from Sherlock all those months ago.   
  
Rounding the last corner, the doctor found himself face to face with a wooden door that had “Dr. Spencer Baird” labeled across it.   
  
According to Mike, Spencer had begun working at Barts about a month ago, running the lecture courses on anaesthesiology and pain medicine, a specialization Spencer had retrained for after returning from Haiti. Standing inside Spencer’s office, John looked around and saw nothing about the space that would suggest anyone in particular worked there. No photos donned the desk and the shelves were lined with practical textbooks and little else. It struck John as odd, seeing as how Spencer had been one to put his mark on things as a student at Barts. But perhaps he’d taken on a different attitude once he’d entered the professional work place.   
  
John sat down at the regulation desk and tried the computer first. Unsurprisingly, after loading up it asked for a password. Before he could stop himself, John mused that if Sherlock were with him he’d probably be able to hack into the system in under a minute. But even without the computer no doubt something about this personality-stripped office would still provide enough data for Sherlock that he’d be able to piece together Spencer’s life for the past decade.   
  
_Well, he’s not here_ , John told himself sharply as he turned the computer back off. Redirecting his attentions, he began opening up the drawers. Most were filled with papers and exams still ungraded. There was also various folders labeled with various company names and a slightly heavier one marked “Misc.” Tucked inside was a datebook for 2009.   
  
Judging by its contents, 2009 had been a busy year for Spencer in terms of work. Each day was crammed with appointments with various colleagues, hospitals, and a few pharmaceutical companies that John recognized. However, from March through September there were several entries made for weekends or Fridays just about every week that read “Nazia.”   
  
_Girlfriend_ , John guessed. Pocketing the datebook for further perusal, he continued to sift through the contents of each drawer. Most remained frustratingly uninformative in terms of personal life. But from what John could tell, along with teaching at Barts, Spencer was involved with heading up several research studies on various anti-rejection drugs for kidney transplants. A printed out email shoved into one of the folders indicated that the research lab Spencer was a part of had been given a grant to start their study next month. There were several other email correspondences printed out that seemed to indicate further research proposals were being written by Spencer for the next few months.  
  
All in all, it was the desk of a busy, prolific doctor who clearly had plans for the future.   
  
The last drawer John pulled open seemed to be a miscellaneous dumping ground for various pens, pencils, post its…and a set of keys. Yanking back open the drawer full of folders, John located the folder marked “HR.” Inside were various copies of paperwork for Spencer’s employment at Barts. Listed on one of the forms was his current address.   
  


* * *

  
  
_“Do you think you’ll join the army as well, Spence?”_  
  
John practically spat up the pint he was in the midst of drinking at Mike’s question. Luckily, Spencer seemed to do it for him.   
  
“No thanks,” Spencer grimaced as he wiped his chin of the spilt lager. “I’d rather lick the floor of this pub from here to the loo. No offense,” he added to John.   
  
“None taken.”  
  
“Why not?” asked Mike as he sipped his own drink. While Mike wasn’t one to be out when they had classes the following day, the successful completion of their finals seemed to warrant some sort of mild misbehavior. “You get to go overseas and help out where you’re needed. I thought you’d like that.”  
  
“I’d make a useless soldier. I can’t follow orders and let’s face it, if I ever bring myself to fire a gun at the enemy I’d probably rush after the bullet to treat whoever I’d just shot.”  
  
Mike nodded, seemingly understanding. “Firm grip of the Hippocratic oath.”  
  
“More like intense Catholic guilt,” Spencer clarified. “Luckily for Atheist Watson here, he can feel free to torpedo the enemy.”   
  
“That would be the navy,” John corrected. “No chance I’m going to throw myself onto a boat for years to come. I’ll vomit through all of it.”   
  
“So what are you planning on doing after we qualify?” Mike persisted.   
  
Spencer made a show of leaning back in his seat, stretching his arms above his head. “Oh, the world is my oyster, Stamford. Maybe I’ll go to Boston or convince one of those doctors on Harley Street to sell me their business,” he speculated with an overly beatific smile.   
  
John rolled his eyes. “ONE set of exams, Spence. One set where you got the highest marks.”  
  
“Yeah,” Spencer argued. “But it was our finals. I’m going out strong. That’s all anyone’s going to care about.”  
  
“Speaking of going out.” Mike checked his watch. “I better be getting home.”  
  
“Oh, Mike,” John complained. “Don’t be boring. It’s not even nine.”  
  
“Rounds tomorrow,” said Mike, apologetically. “I need to review for them.”  
  
“There goes the most dedicated doctor in the making,” John commented as he watched Mike’s retreating back, the underlying scorn somewhat audible.   
  
Spencer shrugged. “Watson, when you and I are old and alone, we’ll be lucky to have ten quid to our names. Stamford, on the other hand, will have a family and a tidy fortune.”  
  
“Oi!” John protested. “I won’t be alone. I’ll definitely have someone to be destitute with.”  
  
“On the topic of alone, is anyone from the Watson clan coming when term ends forever for us?” inquired Spencer. Scowling a little into his pint, John murmured something. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”  
  
“Harry’s been bothering me about coming up,” John admitted.   
  
He’d been spending the last month dodging his sister’s calls about coming to London to celebrate his successful completion of medical training. Initially, John had used a mixture of reasons why she shouldn’t bother, ranging from the fact that there wasn’t going to be an official ceremony at Barts for their newly minted doctors to the worry that her planning to come now could possibly jinx his chances to officially graduate. But none of that seemed to dent Harry’s insistence that she wanted to see her little brother as a fresh-faced doctor. Now John was using a tried and true tactic of simply ignoring Harry in hopes she’d finally take the hint.   
  
“You should have her come,” encouraged Spencer. “Harry’s loads of fun. It’d be nice to see a face that isn’t attached to a hospital.”  
  
John snorted. “Spence, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you’re not only barking up the wrong tree but you’re in completely the wrong forest.”  
  
“You’re off to basic training in a few months,” Spencer continued on, ignoring the comment. “This is as good a time as any to see her before you go.”  
  
“So she can get massively drunk in front of friends and colleagues and I spend my weekend taking care of her?” John retorted. “No thanks.”  
  
Despite the noise of the pub, the atmosphere seemed to quiet a decibel. When John looked up from his drink, he saw Spencer frowning at him. “You should give her a break, Watson,” he stated. “She’s family. You only get one set.”  
  
No doubt aided by the alcohol, John felt a rush of irritation. It was fine for Spencer to take a holier than thou attitude about being kind to family, given that his decidedly wasn’t John’s. “How about we swap and you get back to me about that in a week?” John demanded. “You can take my sister with the alcohol and verbal outburst issues, my dad with the anger management issues, and my mum with the denial of reality issues and I’ll have a nice holiday with your dad in Glasgow.”  
  
Spencer threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Forget I said anything,” he backed off.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
They sat together in silence, drinking their drinks. Already John felt embarrassed by the outburst and regretful that he’d basically done to his friend what he’d often accused Harry of doing: reacting completely inappropriately to an innocent comment. ButnNothing wound him up faster than anyone telling him to treat members of his family with more care, given that that was all he’d ever done before leaving to come to Barts. He was through with that role.   
  
Still, John opened his mouth to apologize when Spencer cut into the silence first.   
  
“I don’t fancy Harry by the way,” he stated. “But only because I know she’s gay. If she swung my way I’d totally try to shag her. And not tell you.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have to, Harry would tell me. By shouting it across the most crowded room she could find,” John deadpanned.   
  
There was a beat before both of them burst out laughing. 

 

* * *

  
  
The address John had found led him to a rather unassuming but fairly nice apartment building. The complex wasn’t nearly as upscale as Edward Van Coon’s place, but the building looked well kept and judging by the flat itself when John let himself in with the set of keys, Spencer clearly made enough to live in it on his own.   
  
Standing by the front door, John felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. His trained eyes automatically roved to each and every corner of the living area, looking for the source of his unease until he spotted the sofa. It was a ratty thing made of some sort of tan felt-like fabric. Staring at it, John realized he recognized the sofa from when Spencer had owned it back when they’d been students. Only now one side of it was covered in dried blood.   
  
John remembered he’d once slept on that sofa, after he and Spencer had done a near 15 hour rotation at the hospital during their clinical training. He could recall how unbelievably comfortable the sofa had been, its cushions practically embracing you while still offering some sort of support for your back.   
  
_“An upholstery miracle!”_ Spencer had boasted.   
  
John approached the sofa, realizing as he got a little closer that there was also blood stains on he wall behind the furniture. During his time in Afghanistan, John had seen more violence and gore than he’d ever thought humans were capable of inflicting. One of the sergeants in his unit had gotten his head blown off his neck when a grenade had detonated while flying past him. Another had only been able to keep his intestines in his stomach because of John literally pushing them back in and holding them. All this he’d dealt with a grim single-mindedness to simply see, assess, and treat. Whatever voice inside his head that had howled at the horror around him, he’d long silenced.   
  
However, seeing the comparatively simple blood stain now, John felt like throwing up. The idea that this stain was all that was left of Spencer, Spencer who was once filled with so much energy, ideas, and cleverness…  
  
Staring at it, he could hear Spencer’s laughter in his head from years back at some inane pun and the heavy Scottish accent that layered over the vowels of John’s surname whenever Spencer addressed. It all seemed infinitely worse than the gunfire and screaming that had haunted him in his dreams months before.  
  
John sharply backed away from the sofa, his leg slamming into the coffee table in his haste. At the spike of pain, he swore loudly before he could stop himself. _At this rate anything that was psychosomatic is about to become an actual injury,_ John thought darkly as he rubbed at the bruised shin. Gingerly, he walked away, intent on searching the other rooms first.  
  
A short hallway led to the bedroom. It was simply furnished with a double bed, chest of drawers, and a nightstand. On the chest of drawers were a couple of framed photographs. One was an old black and white photo of a young couple standing on a rocky beach. The other was a photo of just the man of the previous couple, looking older and standing with what looked like a teenage Spencer.   
  
Despite the six years of medical training they’d done together, John had never seen Spencer’s father in person. Thomas Baird had owned and worked in his own tailoring shop in Glasgow. It was a small business, however, not allowing him to take any time off from it to visit his only child in London. Spencer had often spoke fondly of his father despite the lack of contact, crediting him with having given Spencer particularly nimble, skilled fingers that would no doubt come in handy as a doctor.   
  
Judging by the photo, Spencer had also inherited his father’s nose along with deft hands.   
  
The sound of a door handle being rattled and turned broke John from his study of the photo. He hadn’t bothered to lock the door behind him after getting in using Spencer’s spare keys. There was a slight, but clearly audible creak as the door was pushed open.   
  
Someone else was breaking into Spencer’s flat.  
  


* * *

  
  
Lestrade could feel a stress headache coming on.   
  
He’d known things weren’t going to go well when Sherlock had turned up at the Zetter Hotel alone. And several texts and one actual call later, it seemed John would not be joining them. This had apparently put Sherlock in some sort of mood, which he was now channeling into studying their crime scene with particular aggression. This only meant bad news for members of the SOCO team and their emotional welfare.   
  
“You’re not even wearing the proper gear!” one of them protested as Sherlock kneeled by the body laid out on the hotel room floor. “You’re contaminating the scene.”  
  
“I see it is that sort of razor sharp prioritizing that’s allowed for you to climb to the dizzying heights of a junior forensics practitioner with a boss young enough to be your son,” Sherlock drawled back, not bothering to lift his head from where it was bent over body.   
  
“Sir!” the older man turned to Lestrade. “I refuse to work like this! He’s-“  
  
“Yes, yes, I know,” Lestrade replied, tiredly. “Give us five minutes.” He gestured toward the door.   
  
“But!”  
  
“Five minutes!”  
  
Amidst the sputtered protests this ignited, Lestrade felt his phone buzz. Gratefully, he took three steps back to answer.   
  
“Yes?”  
  
And suddenly Lestrade’s stress headache definitely became a reality.   
  
Slamming his phone shut, he rounded on where Sherlock was now parting and examining the victim’s hair.   
  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade barked. “What the hell are you playing at?”  
  
“I told you your team won’t work with me,” the detective answered, keeping his eyes on the grey follicles between his fingers. “Now shut up, I need-“  
  
“Not him!”   
  
The sheer anger in Lestrade’s voice seemed to break through even Sherlock’s single-mindedness as the latter finally looked up.   
  
“Your flatmate’s just been picked up for breaking into a flat, assaulting an officer, and best of all, going around claiming to be me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
For the first time in history, the great detective looked genuinely surprised. If Lestrade was less livid, he might have thought to take a photo of Sherlock’s face at that moment with his phone.   
  
“Have you put him up to this?” demanded Lestrade.   
  
“Why on earth would I tell John to commit two crimes under your name?” asked Sherlock “Although I do see the general appeal of it,” he added.  
  
Lestrade jerked his head toward the door, doing his headache no favors. “Get up. We’re going back.”   
  
“But I haven’t finished,” Sherlock protested. “Surely you don’t intend on leaving it to this to-“  
  
“Downstairs, now,” Lestrade ordered, using the tone most often employed for disobedient dogs and small children.


	3. Chapter 3

“Right, so what exactly happened?” asked Lestrade. He didn’t fail to notice the barely hidden amused smirk on Donovan’s face as she flipped through her notes.   
  
“A call came into us from Barts, asking if we were still investigating Dr. Baird’s suicide as they were eager to begin moving his files over,” she began.   
  
Apparently, the receptionist who’d cared very little when John had first lied his way through had grown to care very much when she’d been given orders by the director of the hospital to begin the process of emptying out Baird’s office. The call she’d put in to Scotland Yard had unfortunately for John coincided with another call from one of Baird’s neighbors who had heard someone entering Baird’s flat. Apparently Mrs. Ogilvy, who had been the original person to report the gunshot emanating from across the hall was still somewhat jumpy. The constable dispatched to investigate had been knocked down and immobilized on the ground by John before the doctor recognized the uniform.   
  
Quite uselessly Lestrade attempted to engage Sherlock in understanding the gravity of the situation, though his glare at the detective was ignored as the latter seemed intent on studying the contents of his phone at the moment.   
  
Sighing, Lestrade turned to Donovan again. “Who was on the scene?”  
  
The smirk on Donovan’s face upgraded to a full smile. “Masters.”  
  
“Masters,” he repeated. Lestrade finally understood the source of her amusement, even if he was still too annoyed to fully appreciate the humor of the situation. “Tall bloke. Built like a miner on steroids?”   
  
Donovan nodded, gleefully. And for a split second, she and Sherlock shared the same expression on their faces. “All six foot three of him, down on the ground.” Apparently thanks to all five foot seven of John Watson.   
  
“He’s not pressing charges,” Donovan added.  
  
Lestrade doubted Masters could stand the humiliation of having to explain it again for the appropriate personnel, despite having to take into account that John was a trained soldier, “Well, thank god for small mercies,” he supposed.   
  
From her pocket, Donovan extracted a familiar leather casing. “And this was on him.”  
  
Lestrade recognized his ID card. Snatching it from her, he all but flung it at Sherlock. “Theft of police property,” he stated.   
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade,” replied Sherlock, deigning to look up from his phone. “John is hardly likely to be able to steal police property from a year ago, what with him busy invading Afghanistan and all. Even you must see the logic in that.”  
  
“I’m talking about you!” Lestrade thundered.  
  
Sherlock only smiled benignly at the agitated DI. “I’d like to see you try and prove it,” he stated.  
  
For a split second, Lestrade entertained the idea of doing just that. But almost immediately the voice in his head that often kicked in when Sherlock was involved asked Lestrade what that would accomplish, other than having to file more paperwork and utilize time he didn’t have. It was hardly going to teach any sort of lesson, other than to be more judicious with where he left incriminating evidence around his flat.   
  
So instead Lestrade took back his old ID, fuming. “Do you have any idea why John was there?” he asked Sherlock.  
  
“He and Dr. Baird knew each other at Barts,” the detective answered, turning his attention back to his phone. “And as I’ve been recently informed, people tend to get upset when old friends die.”  
  
Donovan snorted. “It figures you’d need to be _told_ that.”  
  
“What sort of sociopath _wouldn’t_?” Sherlock replied, dryly.  
  
Lestrade heaved a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “So what? He decided to storm the scene and leave a trail of small crimes behind? God help me if there’s going to be two of you now.”  
  
At that Sherlock glanced up, looking fairly insulted at the comment. “I think you’ll find, Lestrade, that there will only ever be one of me.”  
  
“Load of our minds,” muttered Donovan.   
  
“In any case,” Sherlock continued. “John hasn’t been behaving his usual self.”  
  
“Or you’re just influencing him,” Donovan speculated sharply.  
  
“Right, okay,” Lestrade cut in. “You stay here,” he ordered Sherlock who only shrugged before going back to typing furiously on his phone. Lestrade motioned for Donovan to follow him as he stalked off. “Where are you holding him?” he asked as they walked.   
  
“The holding cells were all filled,” she said. “So right now, interrogation room 2. He hasn’t been charged with anything and there was little else to put him,” she added. “I really thought of the two it’d be the other one we’d end up arresting first.”   
  
“Yes, well, what’s life without its little surprises?” Lestrade replied, tiredly. “Get his paperwork ready for release.”  
  
“You’re going to let him go?” Donovan looked a mix of surprise and disapproval. “He impersonated a police officer. You could file an arrest on that alone.”  
  
“I am aware,” snapped Lestrade. “I haven’t decided yet, but he’s hardly like to flee the country. And we need the space so either way he’s going to be leaving here. Just get the paperwork ready,” he repeated before shoving the door open to the interrogation room 2, leaving Donovan behind.  
  
John was sitting at the only table in the room, looking half dejected and half ashamed. Staring at him, clad in an old faded cardigan, Lestrade found it impossible to envision John immobilizing Masters whom Lestrade had once seen manhandle two grown men down during an arrest.   
  
At the sound of the door, the doctor looked up from his study of the table. Before he had a chance to talk, Lestrade tossed the confiscated ID in front of him.   
  
“Been wondering what became of that,” Lestrade commented, standing at the other side of the table.  
  
“Lestrade, I’m…” John rubbed at his eyes, tiredly. “I can’t even begin to apologize. I don’t know what-“  
  
“You do realize that the only reason why I let you run around here is because for whatever reason, you have a knack at making sure Sherlock doesn’t get completely out of hand,” interrupted Lestrade. “If you start thinking the law doesn’t apply to you as he does nine times out of nine, I won’t have you within a mile of here unless it’s to lock you up.”   
  
John glanced up at Lestrade’s hardened dark eyes before nodding. “I know. I’m sorry,” he answered quietly. “And sorry about Constable…” he trailed off.   
  
“Masters,” supplied Lestrade. He took in the doctor’s unhappy form and sighed, his anger softening. “Yeah, well, nothing broken. Other than his self-esteem.” The DI slid into the seat opposite John. “Sherlock tells me you knew Dr. Baird.”  
  
The doctor looked surprised. “Sherlock’s here? Oh, right,” he realized. “He texted me about you phoning him for a case.”  
  
“Look, I’m sorry about your friend,” Lestrade offered. “Have you thought about…talking to someone about it?” he inquired.   
  
John glared at him warily. “As part of making sure I stay the sane one between me and Sherlock?” he asked, sarcastically.   
  
“No,” Lestrade shook his head. “My official warning to you is done. This is me just asking you. Hearing about your friend ending that..it’s never easy.”   
  
Something akin to anger flashed briefly in John’s eyes. “You think he committed suicide,” he said, his tone more than a little accusatory.   
  
“John,” Lestrade began, sympathetically. “I read the file. His neighbors called less than a minute after they heard the gunshot. Officers were there five minutes later to find him. The door was locked from the inside and there were no signs of forced entry anywhere else at his flat.”   
  
“Then you missed something.”  
  
“John-“  
  
“So if you looked into it carefully, you must know a reason why he did it, right?” John insisted. “He was depressed? He was financially ruined? His career was failing?” he listed rapidly. “So what was it? What was so horrible that Spencer would just give up?” he demanded.   
  
“Look, we don’t always know-,” Lestrade began.   
  
“So you’re admitting you don’t know,” John interrupted.   
  
“We’ve done our due diligence on this case,” snapped Lestrade. “There’s nothing suspicious here. Case closed.”  
  
As if on cue, the door to the interrogation room swung open and Lestrade had to suspect that Sherlock had specifically been listening to time his entrance for dramatic effect.   
  
“On the contrary, Lestrade, case very much open,” the detective stated, brandishing his phone for both to see. “Dithymoral!” he announced with a flourish.   
  
“What?” Lestrade questioned, irritated. He batted at Sherlock’s hand that continued to wave the phone in his face.   
  
“Dithymoral,” Sherlock repeated. “Latest drug on the clinical market. It’s a modification of oxycodone, designed to give relief for chronic sufferers of intense pain. A pharmaceutical company based in London called Tobaris launched it only three months ago. Marvelous little analgesic. Apparently all the reviews for it have been golden, well worth no doubt the millions of pounds they’ve poured into creating it,” he rattled on.   
  
“Tobaris?” John perked at the name. “Spencer. He had a file for them in his office.”  
  
“Oh, did he?” asked Sherlock, airily. “How interesting considering the one and only campaign against Dithymoral seems to have been launched a month ago by…” He paused to scroll through the reviews until he came upon the appropriate one. “Oh yes, Dr. Spencer Baird. He was one of the original researchers on the development of the drug.”   
  
“For God’s sake, Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed. “This doesn’t prove any kind of foul play.”   
  
“And what would you say to the six other researchers who were employed by Tobaris to test the efficacy of Dithymoral all obtaining a sizable monetary gift from the company?”  
  
“Researchers do get paid,” answered Lestrade, exasperated. “And hang on how would you even know-“  
  
“A six figure payout on top of the negotiated salary,” Sherlock cut in, looking mockingly impressed. “Is that the going price for doctors these days?”   
  
There was a momentary silence at that.   
  
“You…you think the company did something to Spencer?” John finally asked.   
  
“He was the only one of the original seven to make public his findings,” Sherlock answered. He handed his phone over to John. “Read the article. Rather casts a shadow on this apparent miracle drug.”   
  
Craning his neck, Lestrade looked at the screen himself. “This article is dated a month ago. What would be the point of doing anything to Dr. Baird when the truth is already out?” asked the DI.  
  
“One article wouldn’t matter,” John replied, looking to both Lestrade and Sherlock. “It’s an already marketed drug. A single poor review wouldn’t make much of a dent. It’d only become an issue if patients started experiencing complications on it or if additional findings supporting it as dangerous were found in a lab outside of Tobaris.”  
  
“And what did Dr. Baird’s lab have to say, Lestrade, when they were questioned?” asked Sherlock, smugly. Lestrade glared at him. “And here we have the due diligence of Scotland Yard.”   
  
“Sherlock, this isn’t a case,” Lestrade said, patiently. “Both of you,” he added, including John. “There is no case. You already have one back at the Zetter.”   
  
Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Yes, that. Question the housekeeping staff, it’s one of them.” He waved a dismissive hand in Lestrade’s direction. “An inexperienced criminal, they’ll crack under your interrogation, I’m sure.”   
  
“How on earth could you possibly know that?” demanded Lestrade. “You hadn’t even finished examining the body.”  
  
“Well, it was my intention to give you a _specific_ member of the housekeeping staff,” replied Sherlock. “But needs must and we have other things to do today. Come on, John.”   
  
“Sherlock, you are not getting into this case. There is no case,” Lestrade repeated, exasperated as John got to his feet to leave. “I won’t have you running around accusing major pharmaceutical companies of murder.”   
  
“Nonsense, Lestrade. I never accuse,” the detective admonished before giving him a brief smile. “I deduce.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was a bit of a heated discussion going on between Lestrade and Sherlock in the DI’s office with most of the heat coming from Lestrade.   
  
From his place outside by the desk where he was retrieving the belongings that had been taken from him upon his arrest, John could only see the two figures rather than hear. Sherlock’s back was to him and the consulting detective only made a dismissive gesture every now and again to whatever it was Lestrade was ranting.   
  
Lestrade himself was partially hidden by Sherlock’s taller form. Despite not being able to see his face, it was clear to John that Sherlock was now talking. But it was the look on Lestrade’s face that made John’s own frown. The DI looked…well, shocked seemed to be the only word. The shock seemed to melt into a vague expression of skepticism before finally trailing off to pensive.   
  
John moved to see what was happening when a voice cut in. “Your things, Mr. Watson,” the sergeant said, finally having gotten John’s bagged items.   
  
John was happy to note that the datebook he’d taken from Spencer’s office was still nestled within the plastic police bag along with his own wallet, phone and keys.   
  
As he pocketed his wallet, he glanced back toward Lestrade’s office. Whatever it was that had disturbed Lestrade it seemed the DI had gotten over it. Instead was the familiar look of chastising and stern parenting before he waved his hand, seemingly dismissing Sherlock.   
  
“What was that about?” asked John when the taller man joined him.  
  
Rather than answering, Sherlock plucked Spencer’s datebook from John’s fingers.   
  
“Ah, excellent commandeering of information, John,” he praised lightly as they made their way outside.   
  
“Yeah, thanks,” John waved aside. “What did Lestrade-“  
  
“Hail us a taxi, would you?” Sherlock said, breezily, seemingly not even hearing John’s question as he exited Scotland Yard.   
  
Sighing, John chose to let it go for now and lifted his arm for an empty cab to halt in front of them.  
  
“Do you really think Tobaris had something to do with what happened to Spencer?” John questioned, switching gears.   
  
“It’s currently an excellent hypothesis,” Sherlock answered, climbing in. “We’re making a stop at your friend’s flat.”  
  
After rattling off the address to the cabbie, John settled back in his seat and only then realized that his phone was still turned off from earlier that morning. Turning it on, he glanced sideways at Sherlock who was busily flipping through Spencer’s datebook. John wondered momentarily if he owed the detective an apology for cutting himself off from him. But as quickly as that thought came, John found himself holding back a self-ridiculing snort. Any annoyance Sherlock might have felt at John’s absence had no doubt been assuaged by the thrill of a new crime scene.   
  
When the phone lit up, John saw two texts that had come in from earlier. One was one from Sherlock that was simply a question mark. The other was from Sarah:   
  
_I’m assuming by your lack of reply to my last text that you’re simply too annoyed with jealousy. And well you should be. At the first lecture now. Clinic insurance parameters is the topic. You mad fool for missing out!_  
  
John swore softly under his breath. He’d never gotten back to Sarah. The extremely rusty part of his brain that told him he hadn’t actually had an actual girlfriend since… _Jesus, that’s too many years_...tried to work out if his lack of texting was some sort of huge error on his part.   
  
“Well, let’s hear it,” Sherlock’s voice cut in before John could get going.   
  
John blinked up from his phone. “What?”  
  
“Spencer Baird,” replied Sherlock, his eyes still flickering over the contents of the datebook. “You knew him. What was he like? I need data if I’m going to find out what happened.”   
  
John paused, mulling it over before replying. “You’d have liked him,” he finally answered, realizing as he said it how true it would have been for the first time.   
  
Looking up from his study, Sherlock gave him a skeptical look. “Doubtful,” he said. “You and Lestrade make up a very small number of people I have any interest in interacting with. And really with Lestrade it often depends.”   
  
John might have found Sherlock’s words rather touching if it hadn’t come from well…Sherlock. As always the man was simply stating facts rather than any sentiment in saying that John was in an exclusive group.   
  
“No, you’d have liked Spencer,” John insisted, smiling softly to himself. “He also had a habit of nicking stuff from Barts. Wasn’t one for rules much either when it came to doing what was needed.”  
  
That seemed to pull at Sherlock’s interest a bit. “Oh?”  
  
“He didn’t take anything that would be noticed. Just small stuff here or there. Bandages, low grade painkillers that sort of thing,” John recalled. “Spencer knew just about every immigrant family in the area when we were still training. Most couldn’t afford much better than an overcrowded free clinic. Spencer used to treat them for free with whatever he could take from Barts.”   
  
John remembered that back then he’d been more than slightly appalled at Spencer’s complete disregard for the fact that he was practicing without being officially certified, never mind _stealing_ from their hospital.   
  
“They either get an advanced medical student who’s actually willing to listen to their complaints or they get a certified nurse who barely bothers to try and say their names correctly,” Spencer had argued stubbornly.   
  
John had pointed out the irresponsibility of the whole situation, but even then he’d known that the argument was fruitless. In actuality Spencer hadn’t been so arrogant as to treat anything more complicated than a bad chest cold or a sprain outside of the proper facilities. And if John was honest with himself, he’d felt a large amount of admiration at Spencer’s altruism, legality of it aside.   
  
“He was the Robin Hood of Barts, I suppose.”  
  
“The what of Barts?” asked Sherlock, giving him a blank look.   
  
John opened his mouth to demand how in the hell Sherlock didn’t get that reference before he stopped himself. “Never mind,” he sighed.  
  
“And did he continue providing services for free after earning his degree?” Sherlock inquired.   
  
“I…I don’t know. I suppose,” John guessed. “I left for basic training soon after we finished. I didn’t really stay in touch with him after that.” Saying it aloud, an uncomfortable weight settled inside John’s chest. “He went to Haiti for awhile doing Doctors Without Borders,” recalling what Mike had told him. “So maybe after that…” John remembered having more or less stopped communication with everyone from his old life upon entering the army. For the first time he wondered if Spencer had been hurt by that.  
  
“Family?” Sherlock pushed on, either not noticing or ignoring the pensive expression on John’s face.   
  
“Only child,” answered John, somewhat grateful to be asked more practical questions. “His mum died when he was a kid from a car accident, I think.” A long ago conversation came to him of Spencer telling him this early on in their association. There had been a bit of a challenge in his friend’s dark eyes, warning John to not even try and feel sorry for him. “His dad has a tailor shop in Glasgow.”  
  
“Has?”  
  
Has…had? John didn’t know. During their school days, Spencer had rarely gone home. As it had been for John, funds were a bit of a problem for Spencer who barely had enough to cover his expenses to live, let alone by train tickets back to Scotland. John could only recall missing his friend a small handful of times during all six years of training. But he knew Spencer had been close to his father, speaking often of him and displaying a vague sadness whenever he opted to remain in London. But was Spencer’s father still alive? John had no idea. If he was, surely someone would have contacted him about what had happened.   
  
But before he could mull on it further, the cab came to abrupt stop in front of Spencer’s building. Without a word, Sherlock bounded out, leaving John to deal with the fare.


	5. Chapter 5

_“What do you mean you’re not coming?” John demanded._  
  
Spencer stuck a hand into his sparse closet before pulling out what John recognized as his best tie. “Other places to be, Watson.”  
  
“But Harry’s coming down for the graduation,” John protested unbelievingly as Spencer looped the paisley tie over the collar of his shirt. “She’s coming down because she was invited,” John added pointedly. “By me. On YOUR suggestion.”  
  
“I can’t be there.”  
  
Staring at Spencer’s face in the mirror the other man was currently using to finish getting dressed, John felt a surge of irritation at how nonchalant his friend seemed to be at the pending hell John was about to face. Apparently now alone.  
  
“I can’t handle her on my own!” he protested. “You know what she’s like when we get ten feet of a pub.”  
  
“So take her to dinner, keep her out of the pubs,” Spencer suggested as he picked up his suit jacket.  
  
“Keep Harry out of the pubs?”John laughed hollowly. “Yeah, great. Brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of it before? Genius, Spence. Thanks for the suggestion,” he bit out. “Another winner from you.”  
  
That seemed to get Spencer to at least pause in his dressing as he looked at John properly for the first time since the other man had barged into his flat. Sighing quietly, Spencer pushed his arms through his suit jacket. “I’m sorry, Watson,” he said, sincerely. “Really. I’d be there if I could but I can’t.”  
  
“Where’re you going?” John demanded.  
  
For a moment it looked as if Spencer was considering not giving answer before he relented. “Mr. Odagiri died a few days ago. His son’s invited me to the funeral. It’s today.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Mr. Odagiri,” Spencer repeated, patiently. “I was treating him.”  
  
It took John a moment to realize Spencer was speaking about one of his unauthorized patients.  
  
“Oh. Sorry.”  
  
Spencer shrugged, reaching for his usual overcoat. It was a well-worn tattered thing that once been obviously made of the finest wool. John had met the coat the same time he’d met Spencer, the latter telling him soon afterwards that the coat had been one made especially by his father for him as a gift years back. Despite the fact that item of clothing now tended to ruin the effect of otherwise perfectly acceptable clothes with its frayed sleeves and worn fabric, Spencer’s sentimentality refused to allow him to trade it in for anything else.  
  
Watching Spencer give the coat a quick shake to straighten it, John suddenly felt awkward to be standing in his friend’s flat, as if he was intruding on something only he couldn’t figure out what. “What happened to him?” inquired John.  
  
“It was stomach cancer,” Spencer supplied.  
  
“You treated a man with stomach cancer?” asked John, unable to keep the mortification from his voice. “Outside of a hospital? Are you insane?!”  
  
“I didn’t treat the cancer,” Spencer retorted. “He knew it was terminal when I started seeing him. I only managed his pain with meds.”  
  
“What with morphine nicked from the hospital?” John demanded. “Jesus, Spence. You can’t just-“  
  
“I’m not an idiot, Watson!”  
  
If it had been a different day, John supposed he would have simply backed down. Despite it being not exactly on legal terms, Spencer had lost a patient. His first to be exact. But John was on edge already over the pending arrival of Harry and now he couldn’t shake the strange stiffness he felt in the room. And suddenly he felt inexplicably angry.  
  
Angry at Spencer’s attitude of always acting on what he thought was best rather than what the rules dictated.  
  
“Yeah, you always know best, don’t you?” he lashed out. “We should all follow your advice. I know I have no regrets over following yours about Harry.”  
  
Spencer glared at him for a moment before shoving himself into the overcoat. “Don’t be so bloody selfish, Watson,” he snapped. “Put some stuff into fucking perspective.” He stormed past John for the door. “I’ll see you later.”  


* * *

  
  
“John. John!”  
  
The doctor snapped himself out of his reverie. Sherlock was glaring up at him from where he was kneeling by Spencer’s bloodied sofa. From the detective’s annoyed expression, John got the feeling he’d been calling him name for awhile.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Was your friend left or right handed?” asked Sherlock, impatient  
  
John shook his head slightly as if to clear it. “Right,” he answered. “Right-handed.”  
  
Getting to his feet, Sherlock took in the splatter of blood that clung to the wall behind the sofa. “Official report stated the cause of death was a single gunshot wound out the back of the head,” Sherlock narrated aloud. “The bloodstains match up for a man at a height of five foot eleven sitting here when the gun was fired. Forensics found gunpowder residual on the fingers of his right hand.”  
  
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone was forced to shoot himself,” said John.  
  
“And most likely not the last,” Sherlock replied, sounding slightly distracted as he moved to study the rest of the flat.  
  
The kitchen was what gave away the fact that the apartment building itself was an older structure. While the area was notably clean, the stovetop still operated on gas and the faucets of the sink were slightly cracked. The fridge revealed itself to be generously filled.  
  
“What sort of person stocks up on food before committing suicide?” John asked.  
  
Sherlock remained silent at the rhetorical question, reaching in to sift through the packaged meats and examining the bottle of milk before closing it. “A tidy person was he?” he asked, staring at the brightly polished stove tops.  
  
“Not really,” said John. “But none of us were back then. We barely had time to eat with our schedules and…” he trailed off, his eyes out of focus while resting on the kitchen sink.  
  
“And?” prompted Sherlock.  
  
Pressing his lips together into a thin line, John tried to recall in his mind how Spencer’s flat had been back in the day. He could easily see the old sofa in his mind’s eye but nothing else seemed to leap up in his memory. He was fairly confident that Spencer’s place hadn’t been all that flash, not on his meager student budget. But it now suddenly nagged at his mind that he couldn’t see the apartment as a whole with all its furnishings. Rather just an empty space with one lone sofa, though that couldn’t have been true.  
  
“Nothing,” John replied eventually. “Nevermind. It’s nothing.” The detective stared at him long enough that John felt himself shifting a little under the all evaluating gaze. “Stop it,” he ordered, uncomfortable. “You know that’s annoying.”  
  
“Irrelevant,” Sherlock huffed lightly but pulled his eyes away to explore the rest of the flat.  
  
The room adjacent to the bedroom was next. From the look of it, it had been made into a study of sorts with two walls lined with bookshelves crammed with texts and a sturdy desk sporting a computer on it. When Sherlock finished booting it up, Outlook automatically started up, loading the inbox.  
  
Emails from the last few days had been a combination of spam and automated messages. There were several seemingly work related correspondence that had come through before word had obviously gotten out that Spencer was dead.  
  
Sherlock seated himself down in front of the computer and scrolled down to October 22nd, the day of Spencer’s death. All the emails for that day had been read though none had been sent out by Spencer himself judging by his sent box.  
  
In the trash bin there were several emails from days before that Spencer had apparently dealt with already. However, one unanswered deleted email caught both men’s eyes.  
  
 _From: jauerbach@tobaris.co.uk_  
To: s.baird@bartsandthelondon.nhs.uk  
  
Date: October 12th, 2010 at 9:32am  
  
Subject: Follow Up  
  
Dear Dr. Baird,  
  
I’ve attempted to reach you at your lab and at St. Bartholomew but you seemed unavailable. I would like to speak to you in person regarding our conversation last week as I don’t believe email would be appropriate. I hope you’ve given some thought to our discussion as I still believe it would be to the benefit of all parties.  
  
I would appreciate it if you’d contact me at my office to set up a time to meet.  
  
Best,  
Jo Auerbach  
  
The email didn’t strike John as particularly sinister. At least not up front. But in scanning it again, he felt that same prickle on the back of his neck as he’d done when he’d first sensed the blood-stained sofa.  
  
“Something’s not-“  
  
“I hardly think this Jo Auerbach would have your friend killed and then leave this link behind,” Sherlock interrupted, his eyes still trained on the computer screen.  
  
John barely bit back an irritated sigh. “I wasn’t thinking that,” he protested.  
  
Swiveling in the chair, the detective looked up at him. “Weren’t you?” he asked, sounding as if he was merely musing on the idea rather than truly asking him. Again, John found himself on the business end of Sherlock’s gaze.  
  
“Stop that,” John repeated, exasperated. “Seriously. Stop it.”  
  
Shrugging, Sherlock turned his attention back to the screen and clicked over to Spencer’s contacts box.  
  
“I need you to speak to this Nazia from your friend’s diary,” said Sherlock as he scrolled through the alphabetized names before finding the right one. “Nazia Ashkani,” he read aloud from the contact entry. “Address and number are here. Get in touch with her.”  
  
“Wait, why?”  
  
“An entire year and the only seemingly non-work related person in Dr. Baird’s life seems to be her,” Sherlock answered, his words already speeding up in that particular way that John now recognized as a sign that his flatmate was already off on the next step, done with Spencer’s apartment. “Why her? Who was she? Girlfriend? We need more information about his recent personal life.”  
  
“Don’t you want to see the rest of the flat?” John asked.  
  
“No, there’s nothing here the police haven’t already covered,” Sherlock replied, getting to his feet.  
  
“Well, what are you going to do?”  
  
“See this Jo Auerbach.”  
  
John frowned. “I thought you said he couldn’t have been involved.”  
  
“I said Auerbach wouldn’t have had your friend killed and then leave evidence behind,” Sherlock corrected in that tone which always made John feel like he might as well go play with some building blocks for all the intelligence he had. “Talk to Nazia Ashkani,” he reiterated as he made his way out.  
  
“If you’re going to talk to Tobaris I want to go with you,” John objected to Sherlock’s retreating back.  
  
The detective didn’t even pause to turn around. “Go where you’re needed, John.”  


* * *

  
  
Doctor Jo Auerbach was, in fact, not a he but a she.  
  
And her secretary was currently doing his best to fend Sherlock off.  
  
“You’ll need to make an appointment,” the young man insisted. His attempts to look at least passably intimidating were somewhat undermined by the napkin still pinned to his tie from the lunch at his desk Sherlock had just interrupted.  
  
“I would under normal circumstances perhaps,” Sherlock replied, sound genial. “But I’m afraid these are not normal circumstances!” he suddenly all but shouted at the top of his lungs.  
  
The secretary visibly jumped at the sudden volume increase. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to keep your voice down!” he hissed.  
  
“Ask all you want, your choice,” Sherlock continued, loud enough that his voice practically boomed in the office area. “I need to speak to Dr. Auerbach regarding Spencer Baird.”  
  
“Shhh! Please!” The secretary was now on his feet, making futile shushing gestures with his hands. “Dr. Auerbach is not even in.”  
  
Sherlock smirked. “Her door is closed, your intercom is still switched to the receive setting and you’re having lunch at your desk. She’s in.”  
  
“She’s seeing someone?” the secretary tried.  
  
“I would advise that next time you phrase that as a statement, not question,” said Sherlock. “Back to the matter of Dr. Baird and his little upset concerning dithymoral. Painkiller isn’t it?”  
  
“Sir, I will have to call security if you don’t-“  
  
The milquetoast threat was interrupted by the main office door opening to reveal a middle-aged woman.  
  
“Yes, thank you, Stephen,” she nodded to the secretary’s somewhat frantic eyes. “He can come in.”  
  
“But-“  
  
“Thank you,” she repeated, tiredly. She gestured for Sherlock to walk through.  
  
Jo Auerbach appeared approximately in her late 40’s. And while her clothes were well-pressed and immaculate, their pristine quality only seemed to highlight their wearer’s drawn out appearance.  
  
Her office was large, the space in tune with the corporate structure of Tobaris’ headquarters. However, the walls were dotted with paintings of deep blues and reds. The furniture was all wood and a plush carpet covered most of the floor. The whole effect was something warm and nearly inviting. Sweeping the area as well as Auerbach herself as she sat down at her desk, Sherlock noted her married status as well as being the mother of two children, most likely both sons in their early teens.  
  
“Do you make a habit of getting your way by shouting Mr…?”  
  
“Holmes,” Sherlock supplied. “Sherlock Holmes. And not as a habit, no. However in this case it seemed appropriate.”  
  
Auerbach blinked but didn’t press it further. Instead, she reached off to the side to grab what looked like an aspirin bottle. “Are you an officer with Scotland Yard?” she asked.  
  
“Consulting detective, retained by a personal friend to look into Spencer Baird’s death.”  
  
Under Sherlock’s gaze, Auerbach tapped two tablets into her hand. “Yes, it’s terrible business.”  
  
“What was your relationship to Dr. Baird?” asked Sherlock.  
  
Auerbach raised a thin eyebrow as she reached for a glass of water. “What makes you think there is one?” she inquired, seemingly now rousing to put up some resistance.  
  
“This will be immeasurably less difficult if you simply answer my questions, Dr. Auerbach,” Sherlock snapped. “For one there was an email from you to Spencer Baird dated 10 days before his death with the rather ominous statement of, and I quote: ‘I hope you’ve given some thought to our discussion as I still believe it would be to the benefit of all parties.’ But more importantly, you seem to have little compunction with letting in a ranting stranger with no obvious ties to the police into your office as the rant in question seemed to surround one Spencer Baird. So either this utter disregard for personal security is considered best practice amongst doctors employed at major pharmaceutical companies or you have something of a guilty conscience,” he finished off, icily.  
  
The air between them seemed to freeze as Auerbach sat staring at Sherlock, her hand suspended while holding a glass of water halfway to her lips. After a beat, she calmly set the glass down.  
  
“I was the one to hire Dr. Baird two years ago when we began our trials on dithymoral,” she answered quietly. Sherlock nodded at the response, prompting her to go on. “His credentials weren’t exactly what we were looking for. He had his lab but his work was more clinically geared than research focused,” her words were measured, almost as if she was parroting back a well-memorized motto.  
  
“So why did you hire him?”  
  
Sighing, Auerbach lightly fingered the still un-swallowed aspirins on her desk. “The company wasn’t exactly keen. But he had a certain…” she paused, searching for the right word. “A certain _investment_ , I suppose, in his patients. I’d been at this job for years and it isn’t a quality one sees very much in researchers." A wistful look glazed her eyes as she spoke. "I suppose I wanted something different.”  
  
“Only it seems it was a mistake for you and Tobaris,” Sherlock concluded. “He was only one to come forward publically regarding the detriments of your drug.”  
  
“He contacted me first,” said Auerbach. “Three patients of his who had been one of the earliest tested on it had been experiencing seizures and mental confusion. Dr. Baird wanted us to stop production and reevaluate.”  
  
“I assume your company didn’t take kindly to the suggestion,” Sherlock supposed, dryly.  
  
“He was speaking about _three_ test subjects,” Auerbach stated, mild exasperation coloring her features. “There is always a percentage of people who respond negatively to any drug, which Dr. Baird very well knew. However his sense of reason seemed to have abandoned him and he refused to see reason or…”  
  
“Money?” added in Sherlock, innocently. Auerbach looked him in the eye, refusing to look ashamed. “Are we really speaking about _only_ three subjects. _Only_ in Dr. Baird’s trials?”  
  
“There is _always_ a percentage of people who respond negatively. To _any_ drug,” she repeated, stubbornly.  
  
“There is no need to convince me, Dr. Auerbach,” he stated, sounding only bored. “What was the reason for you wanting to see him on October 12th?” Auerbach remained silent, her eyes having slid away from the detective. “Did either you or your company kill Dr. Baird?” he questioned bluntly.  
  
At that Auerbach started. “Is that what your employer thinks?” she demanded, looking genuinely shocked. “Mr. Holmes, that is a preposterous accusation! What sort of people do you take us for?”  
  
Seeing the expected reaction, Sherlock smiled unnervingly. “And yet you feel guilty,” he pressed. “It is obvious enough from your appearance and your behavior. So why? What happened?”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All the characters minus Spencer Baird originated from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and were then tweaked by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The song that Spencer sings is a modification of the Major-General's Song from The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan.


End file.
